


Hot Blood

by stylinourry



Category: One Direction (Band), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Humor, Attempt at Humor, Attempted Seduction, Blood and Gore, Crime Scenes, Crimes & Criminals, Drama, Drama & Romance, Drug Dealing, Eventual Smut, Heartbreak, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Mystery Stories, Organized Crime, Original Character(s), Past Abuse, Past Torture, Racism, Romance, Sexual Content, Sexual Identity, Sexual Tension, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock AU, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-09 12:00:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3248870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stylinourry/pseuds/stylinourry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When you long for its taste, the pain can tear you apart. What was never meant to be, drains dying dreams of magic. Like a moth to a flame.</i>
</p><p>- Emile Pinet</p><p>Liam Payne isn't sure of the how, when, or why, but he has never envisioned himself to be a latent sidekick, much more so the deep bane of Zayn Malik's very existence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot Blood

**Author's Note:**

> (c) BBC Sherlock; based on the original novels by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (c)

\-- Thursday. 7:12 pm. Heathrow Terminal 1-2-3. Tunnel Road East. --

Liam Payne was altogether jittery setting his feet on ground that, this time, did not shake nor rumble, and his instincts told him, as he breathed in the damp, musky, cold air of a London's eve, that tonight would certainly be peculiar.

Afghanistan numbed Liam's service when he failed to dodge a stray bullet, which shot through his upper calf and ripped open a certain portion of his vastus medialis muscle. He had been rendered immobile, resigning to the medical tier of Northumberland Fusilier troops, and the cane became his new friend, with Liam's faint limp not as obscure as he had wanted it to be. So, he underwent another short surgery, designed to re-establish his weak muscle fibres, and in whole, the situation was difficult to acknowledge.

However, one redeeming factor was his ability to continue his doctoral work. Liam considered that finding a job at any London hospital wouldn't be too bad, except there was also one complication.

He had no place to go.

It was either stretch his budget until it snapped, or start gathering wool blankets and makeshift pillows for winter.

"Bloody expensive London," Liam snapped, quite unlike himself from the jet lag that was plaguing him. A few passersby who heard his little childish jibe stared at him strangely, and Liam pretends that he did not say anything of the sort. 

His phone then buzzes and he stops a few blocks away from Heathrow, squinting at the caller ID, one hand gripping his luggage and the other fumbling to answer.

"Dr. Payne here. Who's spea-"

"Payno!!"

He recognized that voice. Raspy, sharp, energetic, cantakerous. Liam hadn't heard from him in ages, it seemed - since he left for the Middle East on active duty five years ago. The sound of him induced a memory onslaught, each more fond than the other: fishing along the modest lake behind his house back in Doncaster, trying (and failing) to bake a series of awful red velvet birthday cakes for his four sisters, him visiting Wolverhampton two weeks before Liam's scheduled flight-

The overwhelmed physician sucks in an abated breath.

"Louis? Louis Tommo?!"

"Damn right, mate! I heard you came back, for good, from your mum and I decided to take an off-holiday shift! Sped to London as fast as my '67 Chevrolet could carry me-"

"You still have that Chevy? After six years of rusted use?"

Louis scoffs on the other end of the line, quips, "I'm not stupid enough to sell it off to some balding idiot who thinks he can mutilate the recoated dandelion yellow paint" after mumbling that Liam wasn't as excited to talk to him, and Liam picks up the rowdy shuffles, monotonous mutters, and the furious scribbling of pens in the otherwise silent background.

"Why on earth would I not be excited to talk to my closest mate? Your dramatics haven't changed. Where're you, anyway?" 

Louis hums noncommittally, and the crinkly flipping of newspaper articles tells Liam that he was residing in his office.

"New Scotland Yard. Some snot-nosed bloke was dumb enough to leave blood entrails around his house. Thought it would give the crime scene more 'flair', make it look realistic. Unfortunately - no, luckily - for him, his wiener was stuck inside a jar when we arrived! We handcuffed the sod on the spot, with the glass jar still squeezing it-"

Liam chokes, spit barely missing his trachea, and Louis is guffawing at Payne's reaction. "Jesus, Lou! Too much info that I _so_ don't want to hear!"

"Missed you too, pops," he sighs, Liam knowing he had reclined in his chair, and Louis speaks again, his howling laughter dying down to occasional chuckles.

As to how on earth brash, potty-mouthed Louis Tomlinson became Head Inspector Liam would never know in the foreseeable future. This mere thought had thrown a giggle fit at Payne's face. For goodness' sake, the sheer likelihood of Louis exhibiting leadership, of _touching_ desiccated, bloody, dismembered body parts, was so dismal that Liam thought it completely hilarious and uncharacteristic of him. 

He remembers Louis' call at the most inopportune time, during a south zone crossfire struggle in Afghan territory that had Liam backed up against his fellow soldiers. _Innards, Payne. On my very first case. Revolting, rotting, putrid goddamn innards_ , Tomlinson had spat into the mouthpiece. He was afraid, more apprehensive than ever before, and Liam had been worried sick that this newfound position of distinguished authority would not at all suit the young man.

"2014's haul was hard, Liam. Every unsolved riddle is killing me! How the hell are people brainless enough to bring us cases with no possible leeway? It's either a) _I'm_ brainless or b) everyone's being an incompetent shit!"

Liam was honestly stumped, feigning nonchalance.

"Well, who _isn't_ incompetent, you know?" Liam laughs, amused,"who isn't chicken enough to take a, hm, stab-"

"Zayn."

"What?"

Louis' sudden interjection surprises Liam at the most, and his tone suggested he was rather reluctant to place his rare faith into the hands of whomever this person was.

"You heard me." 

Liam rolls his eyes. "Yes I did, but - who is that?"

The crunch of Tomlinson's play toy: a fist-sized beanie bag that could take Louis' brunt on disastrous days, resonated through the earpiece for a brief moment.

Louis sighs.

"Well, he thinks he's above me, above the entire fucking police department. Can't even expect him to treat you like a _decent_ human being, which is - which is why I'm asking a favour from you, Liam."

"What does he have to do with me?" Liam questions, incredulous, his voice rising in protest and confusion, but Louis clicks his teeth. Slight anger from being uninformed - feeling _naïve_ \- bubbles to the surface of Liam's mouth and he refrains answering back with a bitter retort.

"Payno...I think you're the only one who could handle him."

" _What_?"

"Don't sweat, pops. You're a good egg. Get some rest. St. Bart's, tomorrow, 3 pm. There's people I want you to meet. Oh, as well as a few things I reckon would be useful for getting your life back on track." 

"You say that like I was in a cocaine-smuggling crime syndicate for five years or something!" Liam sulks, tired and hungry and deprived of sleep, and he realizes then, mind clouded, that fatigue has caught up to him at last. He exhales. Puffy clouds disperse into the starry night air and Liam pushes on, gaze searching for anything, anywhere, that could lend him a decent price for at least one room and board.

People cast disgruntled looks at him when he crashes into a handicapped old lady by accident ("I'm sorry, oh, sorry!"), and, grimacing, Liam figures that he has no choice.

"See ya," Louis chirps to a frantic doctor, who grinds out " _Wait_ -" before the phone line's high beeps grate on Liam's still pressurized ears.

"Idiot," he snarls to himself, promising he would give Louis a proper knocking of the bollocks for fishlining Liam into a situation that was alien to him, a life he did not quite know about, so soon after Afghanistan.

Liam once thought he had planned everything sufficiently for his return to England. He was adamant on being a no-holds-barred physician who would carry his routine weights day in, day out, marry, retire, and watch his children (grandchildren, too) play ball, tranquility seizing his mind: a long-deserved sense of peace.

He had been too wrong.

\--

 _A Blog Entry by Liam 'Painkiller' Payne, MD_ | Friday, 12:10 pm. |

**ARRIVAL**

**'Ello again everyone! So yes I'm back in London! Afghan smells are gone (they weren't bad afghan smells! Of course not! To anyone who I fear I might have offended, I'm just glad to be smelling England again). It's been a bit of a payne (I kid, no pun intended) but I survived and my long-time friend - honestly, I feel a little disconnected from him...5 YEARS of not seeing one another, you know? - Louis Tomlinson, Head Inspector Detective of NSY (I think I mentioned him in one of my other entries more than once) offered me some help...to start a new life and ease myself back into English stability, although I can say he's being sort of a prick for not telling me exactly _how_ he's going to help me. **

**Imagine that, being kept in the dark. And I'm supposed to head over to St. Bart's Hospital this afternoon. Louis wants me to meet new people and look at new things. It'll be a New Life party I suppose (but of course, hanging out at a hospital, or crime scene, or whatever Louis has in mind isn't at all what someone would call a "normal" party, haha. Who am I kidding, I'm far from normal. Good things first though, I don't need my cane anymore! Or at least my orthopedist says so - I can run and walk normally, I'm just not supposed to apply too much unnecessary pressure to my calf).**

**In fact, I should finish up brunch and start getting ready soon. Before I forget, Louis also mentioned this 'Zayn' person to me. He said he was an annoying scoundrel who disliked the authorities: a big-headed pomp. Even though Louis is good-hearted (he is! Mostly. Well, if you don't abuse his awesome generosity and tolerance and admirable headstrong kindness you're okay), he does have certain vices, and that includes _despising_ people who dare sniff huge amounts of superiority. The weirdest part of our conversation was Louis saying that I am the only good match for the Zayn guy, as if I could water him down and handle his presence. I don't even know what that means! How about you? Does 'Zayn' strike a chord? I never met him or had any such confrontation with him, yet from the looks of it I assumed he _must_ be unbearable if my friend seems to utter his name like it was a small, pus-secreting wound.**

**Expect me to be updating you on any interesting developments from my time at St. Bart's today. Until the next entry!**

**Signing off, Liam**

\--

_0 comments._

It's what the light blue space displays, underneath Liam's short blog post as soon as he exits the hotel shower, and he rubs his damp face in suppressed frustration.

It wasn't that Liam had _expected_ people to respond, never the less read, his current entry (or his entire blog). The mere introduction of _Zayn_ pulls at Liam abnormally, tugging his whole self into finding out who the heck he is, and one could say that Liam's curiosity had skyrocketed to unsafe heights.

Louis' countenance as he briefly explained who Zayn was constantly played in Liam's restless mind. Obviously he held a sliver of hope, tiny as it was, that someone would recognize the name. Scotland Yard were embedded in the media, after all. Beneath Louis' reign, great masses of reporters had found it possible to collect and present relevant information on various cases, and, with the many broadcasts for British national television, witnesses, victims and more were additionally able to return vital knowledge to police. This method proved a breakthrough, a departure from NSY's steel exterior as the most successful, yet unarguably secret, police force in England - metropolitan London, to be exact - and controversial.

Louis was too caught up in a blizzard of hammer-difficult cases within five years to update Liam on his progress, but he was told that Louis was criticized for it, for bringing London's justice system to unsanctioned, preposterous liability status. Upper authorities, especially the government, expressed their initial disapproval, very unhappy and very concerned that this NSY-media relationship would open up security breaches of the highest maximal scale.

Liam laughs at this particular memory. The government relented, eventually convinced by a stubborn, rather intelligent, and driven Louis who refused to cut down on the massive volumes of blazing, angry letters which Parliament received from him for months. Despite the warnings they placed upon Scotland Yard that pertained to their Head Detective's "unwanted fretting", Louis had cracked their skulls open, and because of this feat he had become averagely famous: a household name that those with families who bothered to watch telly nowadays were aware of. 'Liable Lou', they called him. Louis _hated_ the title.

"Piss," Liam exclaims, glancing quickly at his watch; wide, alert brown eyes race around the room. He sloppily adjusts his belt, shrugs on his brown army jacket, and doesn't seem to care whether or not he pressed his khakis right. Throwing his unfinished coffee into the sink, Liam grabbed his wallet, mints and room keys, clumsily toeing into leather shoes that thankfully complimented the slim, all the while flattering (he used to be a soldier, for goodness' sake. Liam was surely no boast, but the effects of his razor-sharp health showed on his body...broad shoulders, tapered hips, strong, rugged legs built for running long distances) fit of Liam's trousers.

Yes, Liam was also a doctor, yet amongst the crippling, demanding rush of work and no time for oneself, he could dress up in dapper clothing, breaking the stigma that medical doctors were clueless when it came to maintaining their image, their appearance. Liam certainly did not lack in that specialization, and it had paid off. He was still young, and there was no rule stating members of the medical community were restricted to age barriers and dull stereotypes.

Liam even got to date a few women.

 _Coming :)_ , the message reads, in reply to Louis ( _where the fuck are you Payne_ , Tomlinson had texted him three minutes ago), and Liam hits send, praying he was immersed in a forgivable mood for his tardiness.

3:10. He can make it.

\--

"Speak of the devil," Louis grinds as Liam sprinted, unannounced, into St. Bart's lobby at 3:25 pm. He schools a genuine mask of apology, says,"I missed the tube! Really!" and his friend ignores his excuse, discreetly sizing him up with keen blue eyes. Louis sniffs. "You look...dashing. What's the occasion?"

Liam grins abashedly at him. "I'm sorry, Louis. Never again," he pleads, and Louis manages to chuckle, pulling him into a tight companionable hug. "Missed you, sod. You're old. You're _hot_! And I think nurse over there fancies you," Louis whispers conspiratorially into his ear; Liam punches him.

"I'm _not_ old, Louis-"

"Ah," Louis mutters, releasing Liam from their embrace, and he wags a goofy finger, flicking his brown, gelled, short messy hair. "Still the same pops, so sensitive over everything people say. I was kidding."

Liam sighs. "I know."

"Anyway," Louis mentions, clapping a small hand on Liam's robust shoulder (and in that moment, Liam truly muses at his friend's size. Louis Tomlinson was small, yes, but he was a tough, very attractive package, one of the toughest you would ever meet. It was fatal to underestimate him, more so overlook his monstrous capabilities). "A few suspects related to our most recent case were killed - another unsuccessful drug bust - and we're reviewing their makeup, wounds, those gruesome things. The morgue preserved their bodies, so I figured that, with you being a top-notch doctor and all, you'd like to see. Put your medical skills to use, yeah?"

 _Dead bodies_.

Liam sucks in a breath. He shoves away the worst fragment of his recollections: Afghan troops shooting his colleagues in the forehead, one by one, tumbling to the ground, while Liam barely escaped the coup. He had needed a therapist to slowly ease his PTSD.

"Sounds good, I guess. Where?"

Louis beams at him, and Liam feels the slightest tinge of guilt for even considering to back out a few seconds ago.

"Downstairs, Level 3. We have code two clearance, of course. I made sure you were given the same privilege."

"Thank you, Inspector Tomlinson."

With a smirk, Louis beckons for Liam to follow their path. Antiseptic dilutes the air, and his lungs are dry, saturated by crisp hospital oxygen as they pass the second floor patient wards. Hectic, sombre-faced nurses scatter around like ants, hands careful and tenacious as they inject saline solutions into brachial veins, and Liam knows that he has entered his element.

He further absorbs their surroundings - washed, devoid of colour, blacks and whites and cloudy greys comprising the hospital's walls and stark linoleum floors. It was a typical mundane healthcare setting, until flashes of yellow catch his eye.

Warning tape. **Do not enter.**

Liam soon spots random movements inside the hallway to their right, and two metropolis policemen are interrogating a frightened female nurse. They acknowledge Louis' arrival with a slick nod, and Louis pats Liam's back.

"I have company," the Head Detective presents. "He's cleared. He means to assist the forensic team." Liam shakes their bulking hands.

"Dr. Liam Payne, at your service."

They smile at him amicably, say "Nice to meet you, Dr. Payne," and Louis pushes him along. _It's indeed been a long time since my practice,_ Liam thinks, and his immediate return to work has him struggling to dive back into the thick of doctoral business.

"This room first, Liam."

The glass plaque mounted on the door reads _Laboratory E109_. Louis turns the key to a knob, and the faint, acrid smell of chloride greets them both.

"Louis!"

A woman no younger than Liam runs to his friend, her long, wavy brown hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. She's tall, clad in a white lab coat, synthetic gloves and goggles, and her hazelnut eyes shine.

The girl was a pretty one.

Liam looks at his feet, shuffling, and pretending there was an unidentified specimen on the cuff of his jacket. The room is spacious, but occupied with scientific instruments. Centrifuges, pipettes, falcon tubes, compound and dissecting microscopes, wet mounts, the like, took up two long tables. Cytoplasm jars and other extra materials were also stored in the numerous cabinets on either side of the lab, and Liam refused to entertain the thought of peeking below a dark, stained petri dish, as sticky substances that resembled putrified mold clung to the glass.

"You did say that we had a visitor today! Is this him?" she questions, smile optimistic despite the light shades underlining her eyes.

"Yup, this is him. Returned from Afghanistan just last night! He's a medical doctor _and_ soldier," Louis gloats, and Liam shakes his head humbly at Louis' exaggerated tone.

"Ex-soldier. Dr. Liam Payne," he replies, extending his sweaty hand towards her, and she takes it, enthusiastic; if she was repulsed, she didn't show it.

"Wow, hi, Dr. Payne! I'm Eleanor. Eleanor Calder, in charge of medical forensics, and Scotland Yard turns to us for the disclosure of credible facts, especially when it comes to the human body. Louis is our frequent visitor. I show him the, you know, the forefront of our forensic expertise in medicine, like DNA _gel electrophoresis_ , and I'm sure you've heard about this special DNA matching technique before! I - I apologize for babbling. I tend to babble once I meet new people," she giggles, and her charming charisma breaks Liam's doubts, Louis laughing fondly behind him.

"That's excellent, Eleanor. I can see you and Liam getting along well. Now, regarding the human body, are the suspects still reserved? I was waiting for Liam to come so we can check out forensic progress together," Louis explains, and Liam is still amazed at Louis' ability to shift between professional and casual at the snap of a finger.

Eleanor's bright expression contorts into one of uncertainty, and Louis prods, perplexed. "What's wrong?"

Liam is rather baffled at the red blushes that tinge her pale cheeks, and he wonders what could possibly induce such a teenage reaction.

"Um, u-uh, you see, Inspector Louis - he's already down there."

Louis blanches, snarls,"Are you fucking kidding me?" and Liam gestures between them. Louis' breaths gradually increase in speed, and Liam concludes that this 'he' was very unwelcome, uninvited.

"He's not supposed to be in the morgue! I thought you knew that he has _no_ clearance to associate himself with the bodies whatsoever, Eleanor!" Louis' face is scrunched into one of extreme displeasure, and Liam opens his mouth.

"Who - who's in the morgue, Louis?"

Although the doctor had a confident inkling in which he knew who was there, he needed to hear it from the Inspector's own lips, and Eleanor is too apologetic, her smile drooping, embarrassed beyond belief.

Louis turns to him, brows knitted and lips pursed into a straight, upset line.

"Zayn Malik."

\--

"We're sorry, sir, he - Mr. Malik mentioned that he was a 'good friend' of yours-"

"Bullshit, Vince! Why would you believe Zayn Malik?"

Liam and Louis find themselves rushing to the morgue, the Vince lad appearing distraught at his mistake (Liam pities him, he does), and they push urgently past a horde of policemen who are manning the entrance.

"If you lot honestly can't do your job-" Louis growls, yanking the magnetic door open,"-then what are you doing here?"

The rookie officers mumble their sorries, and Liam cannot resist glancing at the men, sympathetic.

Louis notices Liam's vague behaviour, whines,"don't pity them Dr. Payne - they're damn incompetent like I said they are," and before Liam could pitch in his justified opinion ("You're too harsh on them, mate.") they freeze abruptly.

Louis and Liam watch the man, his back facing their direction, meticulously holding one of the suspect's limp wrists, moving to the tibia, the fibia, down to the cuboid bone.

"Oh _god_ ," Louis groans, pinching the bridge of his nose harshly, and the silent male tilts his head towards them.

Liam is utterly gobsmacked, doesn't know what to feel. The intruder's honeycomb eyes were like mirrors, large, observant, _sharp_ , reflecting what he saw. They resembled transient orbs that could not be found on earth, yet guarded, like ore, erected walls disabling any hint of emotion that could pass through. His skin, smattered with bronze, cheekbones as perfect as ridged planes upon a sand dune. His nose, a flawless bridge, framed by thick, defined brows above his eyes, and his lips were full, plump, a light, light pink, pressed together in obvious disdain.

This man was beautiful.

Liam wants to faint, the male's gaze piercing his own.

"Tomlinson," he says, long feathered eyelashes fluttering, annoyed, leaving Liam's stare and shifting to Louis. "I could hear your yapping miles away from here."

His voice was silk, a curtain, impossible to ignore, a low, tantalizing tone that possessed an intelligence more precious than the smartest person alive, and Liam clenches his fists.

"You don't just enter the morgue without our permission Zayn!! D'ya think we're stupid?"

"Yeah, actually. And I agree: your rookies are incompetent. They let me in."

Zayn adjusts his leather coat, mid-thigh, one of blatant high quality, and his jet black hair is coiled into an old-fashioned _Grease_ parody; Liam attempts to close his gaping mouth.

"What the _fuck_ -" Louis starts, fuming, until Zayn's swift commentary cuts him off.

"I can't believe your own stupidity flies across your head, Louis. Expletives aren't going to change the fact that you missed so many details." Liam watches, fascinated, speechless, as Malik grips the suspect's arm, dragging it medially across his torso. Zayn doesn't look up when he begins to speak again.

This time, a slew of words, pauses nearly non-existent in his smooth, liquid speech, bombards their ears.

"Here-" Zayn points to a broiled skin patch on the right tricep,"-burned himself. You can tell he probably thought bypassing the torch his druggy colleague had would be a good idea. His patella, fractured. Fell on his knee, face-first. Tsk. Looks like a clean split: you can also see the purplish bruising, which means he managed to stay alive for a few more days. His other leg, alright, except for the deep, but fine, slash from his ischium - hipbone - to the middle of his calf. Someone tried to torture him further with a switchblade, because those knives create wounds like this. Blade could've been rusty. The rust, obviously, infiltrated his immune system, then his motor system, then his brain, and kaput...he died. Bad tetanus attack. His head swelled too, I think. The skull feels tight on the surface, as if interior pressure was working on it."

No one talks for a few pregnant minutes, and Liam, during the whole exchange, steps forward.

"That was - I -," he stutters, massaging the nape of his neck,"-wow. How did you know all that?"

Zayn looks at him, quirks an eyebrow, yet he's unresponsive, and Liam's pride collapses onto itself.

"I'm-"

"Can't tell you," the man butts in.

"Sorry?"

Liam jumps, side-eyeing Zayn with a titular look of amazement. He couldn't contain himself.

He was a few inches taller than Malik, but his presence was overwhelming, a pool of authority and untouched design. You couldn't risk touching him, and god forbid that he had reciprocated Liam's childish awe.

"You won't understand, Liam."

"How do you know my name, then?"

"Louis." Zayn says, like it was the most obvious deduction in the world (perhaps it was), and Louis scoffs.

"You're so fucking odd, Malik. I never mentioned him to you."

"Really? When am I never odd? Plus, his name's knitted on the seam beside his hood." Zayn's sarcasm is a fresh jibe, and Liam catches himself rubbing his dampen palms on his sleeves. "I was kidding," Zayn further explains, lips curled into a hidden grimace, as if he didn't approve of Louis' behaviour, and Liam's suspicions are confirmed.

"I'm sure you're looking for a place to live in, Liam. After Afghanistan. Been complaining since yesterday, what with the lines crinkling your eyes - stress. You wish you could find a _favourable_ place. You're tired, you'd like a snack pretty much about now, and you're a little angry that I analyzed the body and not you. You wanted to show people that the brilliant doctor hasn't lost his mojo, yeah?"

Zayn smiles, hesitant, and a wonderful set of white teeth expose themselves, a stark contrast to his dimpled golden cheeks.

"I..."

Liam feels like he's drowning.

"Wanna be my roommate?"

Zayn Malik's question, voiced monotonously, is the last audible sound Liam hears, until he promptly blacks out, falling into nothingness.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much everyone for the support! Just recently got into SHERLOCK and had the inane thirst to create an AU for it with our favourite British boy group.
> 
> This story will, of course, be modified. I'll be incorporating my own touches, characterizations and plot sequences, with similarities/differences/details altered to any scale that I think is necessary. Hope you all enjoy the ride!


End file.
